


SINNER'S TEMPLE

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ancient China, Bad Ending, F/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Rebirth, Strong Female Characters, Unrequited Love, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 01:10:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Like the villains in every tale of rebirth and second chances, except they fail...
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

If the adolescent Qianshu was able to see herself now, she would have no words on her lips, only disappointment in the eyes.

Clothed in beggars’ rags, small and shivering, not knowing if the cold was from autumn air, starvation, or blood loss. The picture of humiliation and frailty; in the end, this was all she had amounted to.  
Those long years she spent—from the ink of dawn to the ink of dusk, giving the salt of the body to perfect her craft, to master the sword, to cultivate the spirit, and just as well to harden its shell—had been in vain.

As she lay there in the dust of that abandoned shrine, held half-upright by the wall decaying behind her back, head dipped in a bow of submission to fatigue, she observed the world dim and, in the dimness, also grow hazy. When Qianshu had found the place and taken refuge within its fetid central chamber, the sun was still high and the day young; what made time exhaust her hours in such hurry?  
That same stretch of afternoon had seemed so unending in childhood. 

During those green years of immaturity, Qianshu did little aside from devote herself to refinement. Any aches were settled not with medicines of the skin or flesh; no, taking the place of herbs and balms were her innumerable vows. 

They were plentiful to the extent that she no longer remembered most exactly, and Qianshu had no real reason to. Each one was essentially a copy of another, so to know the first was to know the rest; if it was not to slit a man’s fingers, then it was to sever his arms and neck, to feed his crushed bones to street mutts. And if it was not to wrench away this man’s resolve to continue, then it was to finish his family dynasty with a wash of gore, and if not to set alight his pavilion, then to collapse the whole of the city in flames, always deaths of innocents outnumbering the charged. 

Around her, mortals grandly called these great tragedies and massacres, while she named them promises fulfilled, a plan to fruition, a crime repaid with interest. 

Though Qianshu hid her wrongs under beautiful titles, she could not justify them. She had not done these things because they were righteous or because she pretended they were, but because she wanted to. People had fostered her resentment, sharpened weapons and pressed them into her palm, but it was Qianshu who moved to kill. She was not like the impetuous boy who, caught in a skirmish, blames the other for first swinging his fist. She had dirtied her own hands and, with those hands uncleansed, led comrades to bathe in a shared filth of entrails and slaughter, so that together, subordinate and superior, they were likewise condemned and cursed by depravities of her design. 

She alone was culpable as murderer, as the beast, the traitor, the mastermind, the conqueror, and finally, the conquered. 

Thinking of the bygone era, Qianshu fixed tighter to her final conviction, for though it could not preserve her life, it would at least lessen the pain of parting: toward those past doings, her heart held not a single regret. And not once had Qianshu asked for forgiveness, as she did not care for useless things. Yet her next consideration inspired amusement—if, not that she would, if she were to ask, nobody was left to answer to it. 

She gave a sigh and, feeling the breath leave her lungs, extended it until her vision was flowered with black. Even after her sight cleared, in her chest, as though it was an unyielding companion, the punishing soreness stayed.

Dazed and passing to the side, her gaze set on a remote scene; she saw it was home, the battlefield and, upon it, a victor standing friendless. It was the Qianshu who used the backs of corpses as stepping stones and their skulls to stack forts, the Qianshu unimposing in stature but fortified by her shadow cast tall and dreadful beside. Who was that devil in bronzed armor, her haunt of legend, and how had they fallen so far from the throne? 

These mirages were succeeded by more, swarming her in their ice and heat until she did not know up from down or left from right. She did not notice faraway voices rise with the night, shortening the distance with every second in the countdown to judgement. Had Qianshu been cognizant, she might have laughed to greet them, and she might have mocked the cultivators for their incompetence, their slow wit, or for their posturing as heros.

But preceding their arrival, darkness had long closed in, its grasp bringing a delusion which made Qianshu’s mouth twitch. 

Right, she did not care for useless things.

She did not care for useless things, but if any pressed his ear close enough, he would have heard some broken murmuring that might have been the last words, never dared to be spoken in consciousness. Faint to the point that it was almost the whisper of and to another realm, as if intended for a spectre, “...Thank you.”


	2. CH1

To say that Shen Ling had a bit of a reputation was an understatement. 

According to rumor, no softness had ever colored his face. Every line and angle was unfailingly hard and sharp while the eyes, already caught in their incomplete double lid, were held even narrower in the grip of his eternal glower. 

His appearance was not strikingly handsome by any means, yet he was someone people could pick out from a crowd notwithstanding. This was owing to two defining traits; his unchangingly ugly expression as well as his above-average height, though it tended to be the former. 

Beyond a glimpse of his entrance, a mere mention of his name could send a group of temple disciples scattering: Shen Ling was often introduced as a myth to frighten newcomers. With no exception, all caught wind of the tales of his wrath, and to escape it was to cheat death. 

There was the “Famine of the Fourth Month”—where he punished a session of disruptive rogues by barring them from the night’s collation—and “Drowning Tang”—when he refused to help a troublemaker who had lost his prayer emblem to the lake—and “Lowered Heads in Blood” and “Twin River Devastations” and so on. 

Whether or not these stories carried much weight of truth did not matter. Shen Ling could not recall when they had originated nor was he able to find who had started them, and he soon learned to appreciate his own infamy. At meal times, he had grown accustomed to an empty hall and felt he had never known anything else. His fellow priests did not fear him like their followers, but they were men thin in face and rich in pride; attempts at initiating conversation with Shen Ling were met indifferently with rebuff, so they preferred to avoid encounters altogether. 

Today was no outlier from the standard. In silence, he studied the three dishes set before him. There was a bowl of shredded potatoes, served naked save for a glistening of vinegar; purple seagrass and blossoms of beaten egg suspended in a few ladles of soup base; and the usual allotment of “white” rice, poorly hulled and speckled with rough husks throughout. This kind of apportioned and unsustaining fare was why Shen Ling appeared rather like an emaciated hound. Because he also had not managed to work up harmonious relations with the kitchen laborers, as other larger individuals did, it did not torment the workers to see him in this state. 

He decided to sate the remainder of his hunger with hot tea and a stroll around the temple grounds. Hopefully one of the two could relieve him momentarily from the grinding in his stomach.

As it turned out, Shen Ling did not need to look far for a distraction.

He had barely exited the dining room before hearing an oncoming rush of footfalls—this part was normal and customary, as disciples had been stalking restlessly outside, waiting for Shen Ling to finish his meal in order to begin theirs. What was not ordinary, however, was the sound of shuffling behind him, trailing Shen Ling as he strode along the raised wooden walkway. 

Realizing that the noises were not his imagination, Shen Ling’s veins went cold and he instinctively tightened his jaws. His fingers drifted toward his waist, unconsciously expecting to seize whatever was fastened there. But in the coarse linen of his robes, which lacked even a pocket for trinkets, there was of course nothing. Hairs raised on his arms as he quickened his pace, taking as many turns as possible while still heading in the direction of the main monastery, aiming to lose his pursuer. 

Then came the next revelation, which made Shen Ling suddenly stop in place: to sneak up on his victim with such clumsy and loud steps, just how mindless was this prowler? There was no reasonable explanation, unless it was not at all the sort of circumstances he’d assumed. 

And sure enough, glancing back over his shoulder, he saw only a harmless disciple hunched on the opposite end of the bridge, hands propped atop his knees and huffing for air. The tenseness in Shen Ling’s body dispelled at the sight, and he waited for the lagging figure to recover his breath and close the separation. 

The other man, raising his head to discover that he was both being watched and waited on by the notorious Shen Ling, nearly fell in his alarm. By then, a chilling draft had picked up and was coursing westward, the surrounding bamboo rustling eerily as it towered over the pair of strangers. Though he was previously timid like a rat beholding the tiger, the temple follower now became petrified, his feet inseparable from the ground below. This middle-aged man, chin bearded, skin lined with wrinkles, was quivering no less than the leaves because of wind. 

Having no choice, Shen Ling took to approaching himself, halting at the distance from where he could continue to stare level at the shorter man instead of down. 

Shen Ling knew that the temple followers would never have sought him out on their own volition, so he asked softly, “Which Master was it that sent—mn. Is there an urgent condition?” Seeing the man’s face shocked white with worry, Shen Ling had restructured the question to be easily answered with a sole word of “yes” or “no.” Reflecting his own relief at the actuality of the situation, he even tried to form what he thought was a reassuring smile, to demonstrate that his inquiries were not a threat, that there was no need for such panic. 

He would have never guessed, from the other man’s perspective, this foreign expression was more horrifying than the ill-tempered version it displaced. For one, Shen Ling’s upper face remained in its dark and disagreeable scowl, his brows drawn together and deepening the permanent crease between them. Perhaps worse, however, was what lay below; not only was the shape of the smile itself lopsided, pulled and unnatural, but it also exposed his sharp canines, making him look like an animal hissing, baring its teeth in an assertion of dominance. 

The poor disciple jumped back and then remembered himself and scrambled into a crouch, muttering as many prayers of luck and longevity as he could conjure, a lamb prostrating before the wolf.   
“T-t-t-this lowly s-servant...is from F-fourth Grand Master. T-there has been a r-r-recent arrival who...who…” 

Shen Ling’s smile dropped, and his tone this time was steely, “Speak.” 

“P-punish, oh, spare me! P-p-please forgive this one!” the man wailed, rubbing his hands in supplication, clasping and unclasping them again. “G-Grand Master...he requests Shen-daozhang’s service in this matter to find...i-in the woods...escaped...s-still untreated…must not...to...brothers...” His message had devolved into unintelligible babbling by its conclusion, and he curled into himself on the ground, anticipating a beating or those fangs locking around to swallow him alive. 

When no blows touched his body after an eternity, the soul gathered up all his courage and peered tentatively up. 

Shen Ling had gone.


	3. (altdeath)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative version of Qianshu's death where she doesn't die alone; does not fit with the original story's timeline of events and does not actually happen, just a little something I wrote on the side.

She had promised to keep him company through the night, to fend off those stray mosquitoes that rose from damp ground; to warm his frostbitten fingers, cool his feverish forehead; to shelter him wordlessly and without complaint. Though firm in resolve, Qianshu did not voice her inner intentions, refusing to say anything to him except the single command, “Sleep.” 

It was her last chance to repay late dues, even if only partially. Faintly, she felt that her debt—all she owed to this pathetic, miserable man—would be hers to carry unsettled for innumerable lifetimes. In spite of that admission, she was still unwilling to let any soft phrase pass her lips. Toward this matter, she would harbor no regret; she did not care for useless things. 

When she glanced sidelong and away from his face before ordering him to sleep, he did not return a semblance of resistance. He had never defied her, never given her a word that was not some species of “yes” or “understood.” True to form, now lacking strength for the briefest reply, he did not so much as mumble. 

By the time Qianshu looked back to his expression, his eyes were drawn tightly shut in a grimace, yet under the deprived light, his eyelids left an illusion of unsure trembling. 

If an outsider was peering in at those two figures in the cell, slumped unmoving against the wall on opposite ends, he might have mistaken them for rotting corpses. The air was stained metallic and bitter by the blood on their wear—which had dried to be almost black in hue—and was equally heavy with decay. In neighboring cells, the onlooker’s earlier assumption would have proven true. In a few days, it would apply to this pair as well. 

Beneath them, the flooring was muddied and darkened by puddles that, in the stillness of the dungeon, lay undisturbed aside from the ripples of fly larvae. Above them, a small ventilation hole had allowed in a string of the summer moon’s lucency; it landed itself just outside the confines of their chamber, suspended light dust dancing a mocking show for the prisoners within. 

Making use of that scant illumination, Qianshu waited for a signal of her companion’s loss of consciousness and found it in the slackening of his grip, which had dug into the cloth over his thighs, as well as in the furthered bow of his head, seeming to have lowered in submission to fatigue. 

Relieved, she let her left elbow to the floor and slowly inched over, clawing at the ground in search of some indent to use as grip, leaning against the wall while her functioning leg struck outward for support, an attempt at stabilization. She sagged in exertion and paused to rest, only to catch her body slipping in the following moment. 

Lying splayed out, her face stinging and painted in another wet slathering of grime, Qianshu gave an exhale. Not having to worry about her subordinate’s attention, she added a clearly audible sigh. 

From her fallen positioning, she stared out at that tiny casting of moonlight, no more than a meter’s length away, and sensed it was ever far and out of reach. Inexplicably stirred into frustration by the sight, she pressed her palms beneath her and, trembling and panting, managed to push back up. 

Finally reaching his side, it took everything in Qianshu not to pitch forward with weariness and collapse into him, thus startling him anew into wakefulness. 

She was already so pitiable, so humiliated, so low. To have a subordinate steal a glimpse of Qianshu in a state of such disgrace would have snuffed out the smoldering remnants of her honor. These thoughts clouded her mind before she recalled he had already seen her like this in the past, perhaps more often than any other soul of their worldly realm; she all but snorted in amusement at the recognition’s delayed onset. ‘How foolish,’ she mused wryly, ‘I really am soon to join my comrades.’

Screened by the ink of evening, Qianshu easily extended a hand to test his temperature but halted partway and, as if her drowsiness had been attended by uncharacteristic sensitivity, decided to first swipe clean her fingers on a patch of clothing. 

Upon comparing their body heat, she discovered little difference, not realizing that, with their being in close and constant proximity, she too had contracted his same affliction. 

Despite the oppressively humid summer heat, the two had been shivering for the entire past week, and yet Qianshu never considered fever; she figured that the unusual alternating ice and fire sensations had been brought on by starvation if not loss of blood. 

Noticing her vision beginning to blur, Qianshu tried furiously to blink back the enervation, but felt herself falling anyway, her eyes flickering closed. 

Her last thought was that she had been left with no time.

But no time for what? There was nothing left to do; surely not an apology, she would not permit herself, and surely not a farewell. 

‘No time to return favors,’ the thought finished vaguely, drifting off with its owner. 

When she roused in the morning, Qianshu was dazed—one, because she truly had not expected to make it through the night, and two, because she had awoken with her head sloped against the man’s shoulders, uncertain of how she had finished there. Mustering some energy, she withdrew from him and rebalanced herself. 

Before glancing over at the man, Qianshu suddenly knew. 

Even aware, she still had an urge to check his temperature, and even after finding that it was unnaturally cold, she checked it again and compared it with her own. 

After this daily ritual, Qianshu let her hand drop into her lap, pulled away from his face, and sat motionless, her mouth pulled tight but every other feature appearing apathetic and blank. For whatever reason, she began to search for that bit of white light and, of course, could not detect it in the washing glow of midday. Acutely recognizant of her failure, she remained focused, her gaze hunting hopelessly, trying to remember its location, where it touched off the ground, how that thing glimmered. She could not remember. 

Finally, she turned back to the man, taking in the scene. His head was hanging forward, cast completely down, as though his neck had yielded, surrendered to a terrible weight.

This image was not at all unfamiliar to Qianshu; he had often bowed respectfully in this fashion to her, when he addressed her, when he relayed news for her, when he was awaiting instruction from her. 

Now she could pretend he was just taking another order. She could tell him to wake up. 

He would listen; no, he had to listen. 

But in the next second, Qianshu registered that these considerations were exceedingly childish and moronic, and so she did not utter them. 

More than anything, she had neglected her promise to watch over him for a single night, when he had guarded her restlessly and unfailingly for years, the whole of her life. And for him, she could not carry out this simple and straightforward of a task; what did that then make her, a superior inferior to one’s own subordinate? 

Qianshu made out the start of a laugh, but could not find the rest of it. That abrupt movement gave way to a sharp ache within the lungs, and her sight flowered with black. Even after her vision cleared, however, the punishing soreness in her chest endured. 

“Selfish for you to go first,” she murmured at last, fully expecting to delight in the irony of her own words, but coming up empty instead. 

Final words finished and chosen to her liking, Qianshu let her head wilt against his shoulder once more, forgetting appearances and pride. Her eyes drew shut, and she felt herself relenting readily to fatigue.

She did not care for useless things, but if any pressed his ear close enough, he would have heard some broken murmuring that might have been the last, never dared to be spoken in consciousness. Faint to the point that it was almost the whisper of and to another realm, as if intended for a spectre, “...Thank you.”

She did not care for useless things, but if any inspected the man’s hands close enough, she would have seen their position, not grasping cloth but loosely unfurled. Fingertips discolored by mud, having been brushed from skin under the ink of evening, only ever daring to touch that sleeping face in the closing of life.


End file.
